She looked down at her wrists and imagined cutting them just to prove she could still feel, but the thought of blood made her already pounding head noxious. Maybe she would go fuck the first person she met but the thought of lying on a surface, open but cold, left her even more secluded, and she couldn’t stand the idea that it might after all prove her fears. So she began typing. She could feel where the blade would cut her wrists if she actually decided to do it. She wished she would. The perfect skin strained and itched, but she resisted clawing at it. Her ankles strained. She reread what she had written, and debated getting up to get her blade. Feeling the scars from where she had already cut herself that day, she knew she could do it, but something stopped her. She paused, angered by her hesitation, pissed as the refrains of the Beatles issuing from the computer reached her ears. Fuck. She couldn’t think, but she left the music on. She stopped typing and checked her email. Closing her eyes when she saw who had mailed her. She read the email and couldn’t smile as she read how yet another friend couldn’t understand her. How it was her fault, she had pushed him away, left him confused. But her skin beckoned and she was hot. She started rubbing her wrists but the constriction of this life didn’t ease, and she turned off the music.

But that was only a bad day. Most days were good, she guessed. Then she got defensive. She imagined herself at café, dancing, beautiful, in his arms, or pretending to be. That’s all it really was after all; a charade. She could make it happen now just like she always could. A wry smile, but a smile none the less played upon her mouth. Her lips parted and her tongue slipped between her teeth. Quickly she stooped this motion, but it had brought a smile to her face; one that reached into the bags under her eyes.

Fuck again. She thought back to every moment she could remember and rejection always came first. What a lie it was that she was always happy. Too bad that was what people liked about her. When she was bad was when she knew no one knew her.

He came to mind again. So I guess when he was low he felt like this? An “I” had slipped in but she didn’t delete it. It was about her after all. She knew that when she got like this she shouldn’t talk to people, just like he avoided talking to her when he was low. She understood.

The pounding in her head was relentless. She began to think of every man she loved. Strange how long the list was.
She began to edit what she had typed and she felt better. She felt guilty for what she had done to him, but she was too embarrassed to fix it. If she even could. She hoped he wasn’t talking about it

She signed back online.
But that was a lie, because she couldn’t bring herself to do it, and instead only wished she had the stamina. But life had worn her down and her edges felt frayed; inside she felt broken.

Back to the long list of men. She wished she could cry into everyone of their laps, but wasn’t that what had caused this despair in the beginning.

Her mouth had unconsciously opened again, and she was biting her tongue

It was all about effect. She couldn’t answer him because then she would be this stupid girl. She knew she was, but sometimes it felt different. Those were the moments she longed for. The moments she did this for. When she was alone with her joy, with the presence of him. She didn’t change the way that sounded, she liked its ring. He felt good she realized, even though he had never touched her, and probably never would. How she longed for the lingering taste of his smell, after he would be done with her.

Done. At the same time as she wanted it to end she knew that it couldn’t. Hadn’t she thought about killing herself, realized she couldn’t.

To cry in the corner of his room would give her the greatest pleasure. The knots inside her stomach needed to be released, and they would be.

At this point she closed her eyes as dizziness spilled through her head. She could feel its volume and it knocked her out of balance, made her breathing shallow. It was that wasn’t it. Or was it the ache that so lovingly held onto her interior.

She would have to reform that. It was more about response. She knew by he way she could look up to him, by the way he made he knees tremble even when she swore they were just friends, and knew that really, they were. By how there was more than one he, but she couldn’t name them.

Anger comes out of us in many forms. Most of those forms are unpleasent to see or to read. Yor story was good, it meandered a little. But the anger your writing about seems too real to be just a passing story. No one can turn to another human for all their love and fullfillments. Only GOD only can fill you up, and released you from anger. I KNOW!